Attempt & gastric lavage

Picture // Tumblr

If anything, this was written to scare myself (and maybe others?) from attempting suicide or overdosing again, not to encourage it. 
Please read with respect.

September 5th, 2011

I can hear the paramedics talking to a doctor just a few feet away from me, but I can't make out the words. It sounds so far away. My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and I can't see straight. My eyes keep closing involuntarily, and I'm so unbelievable tired.

Now I put my life in the hands of someone else. The people who save lives. I don't have to be in control anymore. It's almost a relief.

A paramedic pats me on the shoulder before saying goodbye to me, also mentioning something about hoping he'll never have to see me like this again. He's picked me up before, and he doesn't want to do it again.

A nurse approaches me and pushes the bed I'm sitting on across the room, and the doctor finally says something I can make sense of. It makes the blood in my veins freeze.

"Gastric lavage."

At first, it feels unreal. Then tears start welling in my eyes, and soon I'm crying. I don't want to. I know what it means - that I'll have to have my stomach pumped. I beg them, my voice shaky. I ask if they can't just let me drink activated charcoal like the previous times, but the doctor shakes his head.

"You've taken too many pills for that, I’m afraid. It's important we get all of them out now."

The nurse from earlier gives me a clean hospital shirt and tells me to change into it, and then leaves. I do as I'm told, although hesitating due to the hatred for my body. I lay down again after putting it on. The doctor prepares things, including the tube. It's thick, and I'm not so sure it's even possible to get it down my throat. I’m shaking. I’m scared.

Two more nurses accompany the doctor. One of them draws blood and leaves, and the other checks my blood pressure. When they're finished, the doctor quickly explains the procedure while the first nurse returns with a cup of water.

They tell me to lie down. The two nurses standing on each side of me now hold my arms down while the doctor tilts my head back and starts guiding the tube down my throat. One nurse gives me the water in small sips. It's given to me so that the tube will go down more easily. I start crying again as it slowly moves down my throat. I gag and cough. It’s like I’m being choked.

I'm uncertain if I throw up or not, but I doubt it - I never do. However, it feels like I'm being violated, and the whole procedure seems to take forever. They repeat it until the liquid that comes up has no more traces of pills. I hardly have any recollection of what happens next. I don’t remember how long it actually takes, and I don’t remember having the tube removed. However, I do know I’m crying the whole time.

Picture // Tumblr

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Every time I've attempted suicide or overdosed, I've told myself the same; this was the last time. I'll never put myself through anything similar again. I'll never hurt anyone around me like that again. I'll never take it this far again, I'll never allow it to go this far again.

However... as time passes by, it's like my mind automatically alters the memories. The pain, the humiliation, the loss of control over my body, the feeling of being paralyzed, the cold, the dizziness, the confusion, having my stomach pumped...

The memories seem so distant. It didn't happen to me. I don't associate the memories with the feelings I know they brought anymore, and after a few months, I've once again convinced myself that it'll be quick and painless, although I know otherwise. Once again, every single thing I do becomes a question of choosing between life and death. Quite literally. It's like my mind and body are plotting against me, preparing to do it again, and I'm not even sure if I want to die.

Picture // WeHeartIt

It terrifies me.

Lucifer's Hands

I wrote this poem when I was in a psych ward in July/August last year. I had reached out for help without extreme measures, and was heard - in a way. They were condescending and kicked me out after four days, but it was something. I was lying in bed there, thinking about my boyfriend. I've been asked how it's possible that he's helped me if I still struggle with the things I do even though I have him. This is what came of it. It might not be a big thing for others, but it is for me. It was originally written in my native language, so I'll include the original below the English translation.

Lucifer’s Hands 

Lucifer’s hands 

lay around my throat 

He tightened his grip, 

and made it impossible to breathe 

He created 

a chaos of thoughts and urges 

That ended with cuts and blood, 

pills, and all that followed 

I tried 

to run, escape, flee 

But he always caught up with me, 

and dragged me back into the abyss 

He trapped me 

in an eternal vicious circle 

The pain was the only way out, 

although it never lasted 

A slave 

of the forces of darkness 

All light was bygone, 

leaving only my biggest fear 

But then, 

you were there 

Reached out a hand, 

offered to listen 

From you, 

I received help when I fell 

You got me back on my feet 

without asking anything of me 

You, 

who also had suffered, 

you cared for me, 

without an ounce of selfishness 

And I 

wanted to give the fight another go 

More determined than before, 

for you 

For Lucifer’s hands 

lie around my throat 

But you made him 

loosen his grip

Lucifers hender 

Lucifers hender

lå rundt halsen min

Han strammet grepet

og gjorde det umulig å puste

Han skapte

et kaos av tanker og trang

Med følger som kutt og blod,

piller og alt som hørte med

Jeg prøvde

å løpe, rømme, flykte

Men han tok meg alltid igjen,

og dro meg ned i avgrunnen

Han fanget meg

i en evig ond sirkel

Smerten var eneste vei ut,

selv om det ikke varte

En slave

av mørkets krefter

Alt lyst var svunnet hen,

og etterlot kun min største frykt

Men så

sto du der

Rakte ut en hånd,

tilbød deg å lytte

Av deg

fikk jeg hjelp når jeg falt

Du stablet meg på beina,

uten å be om noe i gjengjeld

Du

som selv hadde lidd

tok meg til deg

uten noe egoisme i tankene

Og jeg

ville gi kampen et nytt forsøk

Mer bestemt enn før,

for din skyld

For Lucifers hender

ligger rundt halsen min

Men du fikk ham til

å løsne grepet 

"Attention-seeker"

Picture // Tumblr

"She's just doing it for attention."
"Ignore it, and she'll stop eventually. If you give her attention, she'll just keep doing it."

Things I hear all the time regarding my self harm, suicidal thoughts and actions, and my other mental issues. Things I hear from friends and read online - not about myself, but about others.

Yes, I do want attention. Is that such a bad thing? Why is it that wanting attention has become so negative, such a derogatory term?

I've been ignored and put down my whole life, so much that I even prefer negative attention rather than being invisible. If I had the option between being beaten, and being ignored completely, I'd choose the first. I've provoked people into hitting me.Terrifying, but still better options than being ignored. It was better than being invisible.

Yes, I am partly doing what I'm doing to myself for attention. Not because I want people to pity me or baby me, but because I want someone to really see how much pain I'm in. Because I want someone to acknowledge my issues for what they are. Because I need love and attention and encouragement, just like anyone else.

No, I will not stop if people keep ignoring me. Quite the contrary, I'll scream louder and louder in the only ways I know of - worse behaviour, worse cuts, worse overdoses, worse suicide attempts. It's true that I get encouraged to keep destroying myself from the attention I've gotten after overdoses and suicide attempts, but only because the kind of attention I've been given has reinforced the fact that I need to do these things to be seen. If they had listened to my words, I wouldn't have to take to such extreme action.

I need reassurance. I need to understand that I can be seen and heard - using words alone. I need someone to hear what I say before I do something really bad. I need someone to see and hear what my thoughts can make me do - before I do it. I need people to care. I need people to encourage my recovery and utter concern for the reasons behind what I've done if I first do something drastic.

Wanting attention is not a bad thing. It's human nature. Babies scream and cry to get it if they're ignored.

"S/he just cuts for attention."

"His/her problems aren't real."

"Attention-seeker."

In my opinion, people who say things like that, their voices condescending and filled with venom, are ignorant. Who can decide what problems are real or not? Do they not understand how much pain someone has to be in to drag a blade across their own skin? Even if it's "just for attention", if someone is so desperate to be seen and for someone to care that they permanently scar their own bodies, isn't that a sign that something is wrong?

I do not cut only for attention (I could list almost a dozen reasons, and I will in a later entry), but it's one of them. For people to see my pain. Until I learn that it's okay to not do it, that people still see me and my problems, it will probably remain one of the reasons.

It's been a long time coming

Ever since the thought first occurred to me, not a single day has passed where I haven't thought about it. Of course it varies in strength, and the thought isn't synonymous with the urge to do it. It can be a brief thought that enters my mind one second and vanished the next, or it can be an urge so powerful it's all that consumes me, an urge it's almost impossible to not act out on.

The urges and the self-destructiveness that consume me have caused me to cut myself, to burn myself, to abuse myself physically and verbally and emotionally in most ways I can think of. They've caused me to overdose, to slit my wrists, to walk into the street with cars approaching, to try to drown myself, and to stand on bridges, trying to gather the courage to jump.

Regardless of the strength of the thoughts and urges, no day has been completely without, and maybe that's what they meant when they told me I was chronically suicidal and nothing could be done about it. Am I doomed to continue like this for the rest of my life, however long or short that might be? Do I always have to possess this need to tempt death, or even to "achieve" it?

It's been like that for so long. It's been a long time to want to take my own life.